The Deuce
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Brothers in Arms: Road to Hill 30. 2nd Lieutenant Lynn Jackson, commander of 3rd Platoon of Fox Company, 502nd PIR, 101st Airborne Division, has been preparing to be a part of the Screaming Eagles' rendezvous with destiny since before he got out of VMI in 1943. It is June 5th, 1944. The hour is finally here.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

There were only a few hours left.

An invasion that had taken years to plan, prepare, and lay the groundwork for, was now just hours away from happening. By tomorrow morning, over 100,000 Allied soldiers, not only from the United States and Britain but also from Canada, France, Poland, Norway, New Zealand, Holland, Australia, and almost every other country the Nazis had invaded in Europe, would be hitting the beaches of the Normandy region of France's northern coast. A further 24,000 would be arriving by air in the very first hours of June 6th.

The U.S. Army's 82nd and 101st Airborne were both tasked with numerous objectives in the Cotentin Peninsula, to the west of the American seaborne landing zone called Utah Beach. The British Army's 6th Airborne Division was assigned to capture intact a number of key bridges over the Caen Canal and the River Orne. And the Free French 4th SAS Battalion would be going after objectives in Brittany. These airborne forces were the vanguard of the main invasion force, responsible for securing bridges and roadways, blowing up anti-air guns and silencing artillery batteries. This was the largest deployment of parachute infantry in human history, involving the use of more than 1,000 C-47 transport aircraft. These troopers had much expected of them. The success or failure of the whole invasion, of Operation Overlord itself, might well depend on what happened after the airborne troops hit the ground.

It was very fitting, then, that the first commander of the 101st Airborne Division, General William "Bill" Lee, had said the Screaming Eagles had "a rendezvous with destiny." He had been more right than even he might have known.

The big jump had actually been called for and then canceled a time or two already. The men had been called up, told to get ready and prepare all their gear, moved to the assembly areas where the rows of C-47's waited. Then, seemingly after everyone had finally gotten every piece of equipment ready and prepared themselves mentally, the jump was cancelled and the troopers told to stand down.

But this was farther than they'd ever come before. The general consensus was that there would be no cancellation tonight. This time it was happening.

This was the feeling of a lot of the men in the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment, one of several regiments in the 101st. It was what Captain Legrand K. Johnson had told his platoon leaders when they gathered at his tent earlier in the day. And it was what 2nd Lieutenant Lynn "Lynn" Jackson, commander of 3rd Platoon, had told the men when he briefed them not long after meeting with the captain.

The 22-year-old junior officer had been with the 101st for almost a year, going directly to airborne school after graduating from the Virginia Military Institute in 1943. Lynn had attained the rank of Cadet Major, the 2nd Battalion executive officer, and he'd majored in History. He planned on becoming a teacher in that subject somewhere down the road, and was always reading some history book, some magazine, or visiting a historical site. In his free time, Lynn had managed to see almost all of London's big landmarks, plus the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, Britain's equivalent to West Point, and the Royal Air Force College Cranwell, primary officer training school for the RAF.

He was a thinker, a writer, exceptionally good at remembering names, dates, places, and details. An odd background, in a sense, for an officer in the paratroopers. But Lynn Jackson was also quick-thinking, skilled and practiced in the tools of his trade, and as fit as anyone his age. He may have been somewhat socially awkward, shy, hardly the partier or rough working man a lot of the troopers were, but Lynn was also a pretty damn promising platoon leader. He could read maps as well as anyone else in the company, studied infantry tactics with dedication, and chose an ordinary M1 Garand over the smaller weapons more popular with officers. The young officer also avoided putting on airs, and was remarkably modest about the VMI degree he had- something many enlisted men expected officers to be very smug about, the same way they'd expect it from someone from West Point.

There wasn't any big secret to how well Lynn had done at earning his men's respect, from his arrival in 3rd Platoon to his many long days leading them in field exercises and practice jumps here in England. Lynn had actually struggled to acclimate to VMI in his Rat (freshman) year, and had ranked around the middle of his class both there and at airborne school. The 'secret', if there was one, was that Lynn Jackson worked damn hard. He rose earlier, went to bed later, and carried more responsibility than anyone else in 3rd Platoon.

All he hoped now was that it would be enough. He'd be finding out pretty soon.

 **XX**

"That's about the eighth time I've seen you strip and reassemble your weapon, sir."

The dark-haired junior officer looked up, letting go of the bolt on his M1 and letting it slide forward again. He spotted the hints of a smile on the normally stern and businesslike face of his platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Greg 'Mac' Hassay. Tough, stoic, an absolute master at everything an infantry sergeant should know, Mac had backed up Lynn from day one, even though the young lieutenant knew he didn't exactly deserve it. Here he was, claiming to be the superior of a man who was a full 14 years his senior, who'd been in the Army for 10 years compared to Lynn Jackson's one. But as he got down on his knees by his bedside every night to say his prayers, Lynn often added a special thanks to God for giving him Staff Sergeant Hassay. There was only one way to say it: Mac was a magnificent soldier.

Smiling self-consciously, Lynn observed that, at this moment, that he was alone as he worked over his gear near the tail of the plane. "Just nervous, Sergeant," he said. "Better if I give myself something to do."

"Everybody's on edge, sir. It's not just you."

Now Lynn smiled a little more. "Except you, Sergeant. I hear you career noncoms have trained yourselves to never show fear."

"True, sir, but never showing it and never feeling it aren't the same."

Mounting the leather sling back on his M1, Lynn gestured at the rows of pieces of equipment and gear, laid out neatly on his unfolded reserve chute. "Look at this, Sergeant. I've got a compass, entrenching tool, canteens, bayonet, fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades, 'frog' clicker, wire cutters, gas mask, a damn _land mine_ , plastic explosives, my M1911, three days' worth of rations, maps, rain jacket, my helmet, two chocolate bars, two hundred francs in ten-franc bills… and then I still got my chute, reserve chute, six pistol magazines, twelve eight-round clips of .30-06, my Mae West and my M1!"

"What's your point, sir?" A quick glance back at Hassay showed the veteran sergeant was actually being facetious. It was just so hard to tell with how calm and even-keeled he always was. You had to spend some time around him to notice the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, the only sign that Mac was making a joke.

"Jesus Christ," Lynn exclaimed, half to himself, "this stuff weighs as much as _I_ do!"

"Feel your pain, sir!" Corporal Joe Hartsock called, as he wandered by on the way to the next plane. "I feel your pain."

"Thank you, Corporal!" Lynn called back. "Nice to know we're all in the same boat, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir!"

A few minutes later, Sergeant Matt Baker stopped by as Lynn was hard at work repacking all his gear. The junior sergeant had been promoted to E-5 after 3rd Squad's original leader had broken his arm in a practice jump. He hadn't exactly asked for the promotion, but both Lynn and Mac had seen him as the ideal choice. The Missourian was the same age as Lynn, and had a hardworking, no-nonsense attitude that Lynn very much appreciated. He expected Matt Baker would do well as a squad leader once they landed in Normandy, whether or not he'd actually wanted the job.

"3rd Squad's good to go, sir," Baker said, nodding since he was loaded down with all his gear and had his M1 in hand. "I've checked everybody over. We're as ready as we'll ever be."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Lynn answered. "I'll be stopping by in a little while, once everyone's boarded the planes."

"Sounds good, sir," Baker replied, nodding and moving off.

"He's a better soldier than he thinks he is," Lynn remarked, looking after him.

"Runs in the family," Hassay answered simply.

"I don't doubt it," Lynn replied. Colonel Joseph Baker, Matt Baker's father, had served alongside Mac when they were both instructors at the infantry school at Fort Benning, Georgia. Colonel Baker had saved Hassay's life during an accident in a demolitions training exercise, and Hassay remained convinced that Matt Baker had the same potential to act swiftly and decisively in a life-threatening situation, and that he could become as accomplished a soldier as his father had been.

Lynn had by then just about finished repacking his gear. Hassay assisted him with getting it all loaded on his harnesses, and stowing his rifle and some other weapons and equipment in his leg bag, a long canvas bag the 101st had adopted from the British airborne. The idea was that you would jump out of the plane, dropping the leg bag as you descended. You would land on top of your bag and have its items ready for use immediately, instead of digging them out of your pack.

As he stood up, weighed down heavily by more than 100 pounds of gear, Lynn was thankful- and not for the first time- that he was such a fitness nut. Anybody carrying his own body weight on his back and shoulders would naturally find the task difficult, but somebody in sub-par physical condition might well find the task impossible. It was hard enough to stand in it, and when Lynn had first begun training with the airborne. Back then, fighting under such a load seemed impossible. But here he was, about to do it anyway.

The junior officer and veteran sergeant watched as the last few of 3rd Platoon's troopers boarded the two C-47's allotted. There were 15 men in each plane, cutting the platoon exactly in half. The first plane would take a "stick" of troopers consisting of 1st and 2nd Squad, with Lynn Jackson as jumpmaster. Staff Sergeant Hassay was the jumpmaster for the plane taking 3rd and 4th Squads.

M1's, M1 carbines, M1911s, BAR's, M1919 .30-caliber light machine guns, plus two bazookas in 2nd Squad. Fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades, orange and green signal smoke grenades, land mines, plastic explosives, a bayonet and entrenching tool for each man- the troopers were all carrying a hell of a lot of stuff. But the good news was, in exchange for bearing up under all that weight, once they hit the ground, each man in the Screaming Eagles had everything he needed to wage war by himself. Together, they were a force capable of putting a boot to the egg that was Adolf Hitler's vaunted "Fortress Europe". Soon enough they'd be crushing it.

"The men all got their air-sickness pills?" Lynn asked, trying to make sure he didn't forget anything last-minute.

"They did, sir," Hassay answered.

"Have you taken yours?"

"Yes. How about you, sir?"

There. I forgot something, sure enough. Lynn unbuttoned one of his breast pockets, took out the little pill that command had wanted passed around to everybody in the airborne forces, got one of his canteens out and swallowed the pill with a swig of water. Recapping the canteen and putting it away, Lynn smiled sheepishly. "Yes, I have, Sergeant."

Mac almost actually smiled at that one. "Very good, sir."

 **XX**

At 2300 hours, twenty minutes before the massive fleet of C-47's would commence takeoff, then form up in the air for the flight across the channel, Lynn made his way to the second C-47 carrying the men in his platoon. Still wearing the 100+ pounds of gear, he grunted with the effort as he had to practically wedge himself out of the door of the plane. But he managed, and met Staff Sergeant Hassay halfway. They'd agreed beforehand to meet up one more time before takeoff.

"How're 3rd and 4th, Sergeant?" he asked.

"Ready to go, Lieutenant," Hassay answered. "It's a good thing they said 15 to a plane, though."

Lynn laughed. "Yeah. Make it much more than that and there'd be no room for the pilots."

"How's 1st and 2nd?"

"Doing fine," Lynn answered. "Everyone's actually pretty relaxed. For the circumstances, anyway." He paused, looking out towards the partly-clouded night sky, lit only by the moon.

"I'm not as scared as I thought I'd be," he said, half to himself. "I was more worried during my first practice jumps."

"It might be those pills," Hassay speculated. "They're supposed to help with calming your stomach down in the air, but they might wind up calming the rest of you down, too."

Lynn smiled, taking off his helmet and looking at the single white vertical stripe on the back of it- the only indication there was that Lynn Jackson was an officer. "In that case," Lynn said, "I'm glad they passed those out. Even if it's some extra effect nobody anticipated."

The two men paused, gazing up at the night sky in silence. Around them, ground crews were moving around, making ready for the takeoffs, and also the landings to come as the empty C-47's came back. A few troopers were still on the ground too, but not many. By now, even Colonel Moseley, CO of the 502nd, was probably mounted up in his plane.

Well, there wasn't much time left. Lynn knew he'd better do two more things and then return to his plane- he'd have just enough time and not much more.

Clipping his helmet back on after inspecting it yet again, Lynn looked at Hassay, wondering again how he'd managed to so fully earn the respect of a soldier and man so many years his senior. It was humbling, to say the least, to realize that Hassay, like many of the men in 3rd Platoon, simply trusted him.

 _I better not let them down_ , Lynn thought, and suddenly, fiercely felt himself add, _I'd rather die than let them down._

"Sergeant," he said, "I want you to have something."

"What's that, sir?"

"This."

Sliding his Virginia Military Institute, Class of 1943 ring off his finger, Lynn Jackson held the ornate band of gold out in one hand. It was a heavy, expensive thing, not just because of the sizeable amount of gold but also because of the red gemstone set atop it. On the inside band was inscribed his name- Lynn Everett Jackson, III, a fancy name he rather disliked and almost never used- and his social security number. Four long, hard years at one of America's most challenging colleges had earned him this ring. It was one of his most valued possessions and always would be. Lynn had worn the ring in Officer Candidate School, Airborne Infantry School, and every day he'd been assigned to the 101st. He'd become an officer and earned his silver jump wings while wearing it.

But now the young officer handed it over to the older man, who looked back in puzzlement.

"What's this for, sir?"

"It's my ring. You know what it means to me. I want you to have it."

"Why?"

Lynn hesitated. He tried to think of one, but there was no other way to say it.

"In case something happens to me." He added after a moment, "If I don't make it, you hold onto it. Even the best sergeant in the Five-Oh-Deuce could use a good luck charm, and this ring has been worn by men who've done incredible things."

Hassay looked back at him, his expression unreadable. "I don't want this, Lieutenant. I don't want a man like you sounding like he thinks he ain't gonna make it."

"Take it, Sergeant."

"Sir-"

"Please. Just take it."

The veteran sergeant sighed, his hand closing around the band of gold. "All right, sir. But I'm making one condition if I take this."

"What's that, Sergeant?"

Looking the younger man steadily in the eyes, Hassay said, "When we both make it down and get the platoon together, the first thing I'm gonna do is give you this ring back." He set a hand on the butterbar's shoulder, perhaps sensing the nervousness that Lynn was a little too proud to openly give away. "You're gonna make it, Lieutenant. The best LT in the Five-Oh-Deuce needs to give his own good luck some credit."

The dark-haired 22-year-old actually blushed a little, his cheeks heating in embarrassment. "I'm hardly that, Sergeant."

"Sir, I trust your judgment as much as any officer in this regiment." Hassay said it firmly, without hesitation. It was unbelievable. He _meant_ it. "Now, sir, was there anything else?"

"I'll see you to the plane," Lynn said. His voice was a little choked, but Hassay either didn't notice, or more likely pretended not to.

They walked back to the C-47 together, and the lieutenant helped the staff sergeant squeeze himself back in the open door of the transport. Then Lynn climbed up to the doorway himself and stood there, looking in at the two rows of troopers seated on either side of the aircraft, facing inward towards each other.

Baker, Hartsock, Allen and Garnett, Corrion, Hassay, Leggett, Campbell, Marsh, McConnell, and the unpopular misfit of the platoon, the 19-year-old William Paige. Them and all the others- 29 men. In this plane alone there were not just fifteen paratroopers. That was what only a bystander saw, someone totally detached from what was going on. Lynn Jackson saw fifteen mothers and fathers, counting on this random 22-year-old college graduate to bring their sons home. Brothers, sisters, wives, girlfriends, children. All of them now looking to Lynn E. Jackson, through the eyes of their brothers, fathers, uncles and sons.

The thought occurred to him one more time: _I'd_ _rather die than let them down_.

In the big scheme of things, his own life wasn't that significant. Losing it was nothing if it happened to be the price of bringing his men home. Lynn had no idea why he was trusted by these men, why they actually seemed to think- to _believe_ \- that he knew what the fuck he was doing, and would keep them alive when they landed in Normandy.

But if they believed it, if Hassay believed it… maybe it _was_ true.

Lynn was sure as hell gonna give it his best shot. Give it your best, holding nothing back. That was all you could do.

Looking around, Lynn raised his voice after a few moments.

"I oughta tell you guys that just a couple of days ago, I wrote a letter to Berlin, telling them they still have time to do the decent thing, throw in the towel and save everyone a lot of trouble. Naturally, they didn't give a shit."

Rumbles of laughter answered him, from every man on the plane. Even the pilots, busy doing last minute checks and going over their gauges and flight controls, gave a laugh in response.

Lynn smiled, then went on more seriously, "You've all heard the big speeches from General Eisenhower, General Taylor, Colonel Moseley and everybody right on down to the Captain. I don't have much to add next to what they've already said."

Meeting eyes with every man in 3rd and 4th Squad, he spoke solemnly, carefully pronouncing every word. "Fight hard, look out for the man next to you, and remember our motto in the Deuce: Strike. No matter what happens to us when we cross the Channel, I promise you, the Germans will be sorry they were born by this time tomorrow."

More grins and laughs, and grunts and hungry growls of agreement. The men really liked _that_ idea.

"Enjoy the free plane ride, guys," Lynn said in closing. "Good luck to you. I'll see you on the ground."

Then he backed down the boarding step ladder, and got out of there before he made a fool of himself and started crying. Lynn felt like he had no real way of knowing if his words meant very much to the men- if, indeed, they meant anything at all. But he felt it was his responsibility to say something before the big jump. It was something officers were just supposed to do. Assure the men that they were going to be all right. Remind them they had good leaders who would be there sharing the risks, looking out for them.

The fact was, not all of these men were going to make it through the next twenty-four hours. 3rd and 4th Squad would almost definitely have at least one man killed or wounded, as would 1st and 2nd. Maybe they'd lose more than that. Maybe one whole plane would go down, or a squad would go missing. There was no way to know. But you didn't talk about any of that, not in front of the men. They already knew what the dangers were, the fact that some of them just weren't coming back. You just reminded them that there was also a chance that they were gonna be okay.

Lynn didn't plan on being reckless. He didn't intend to do anything that would needlessly jeopardize his own chances of returning to the United States alive. He had parents, a kid brother at Hargrave Military Academy, his old Virginia boarding school, plus two more younger brothers at home in Clifton Forge. He had a family hoping for his safe return just like anyone else. But he was also tasked with responsibility for 29 family's sons, fathers, uncles, nephews, and cousins. And those 29 lives mattered more than his own did. That was the reality of what you took on when you became an infantry officer- and Lynn had volunteered for that, too.

 **XX**

Boarding his own C-47, Lynn Jackson repeated the first two-thirds of his speech, then sat down and shut up. As the two Air Corps lieutenants piloting the Dakota got the two powerful engines started and the plane began to roll down the runway, taxiing into place to wait for its turn to take off, Lynn became just another anonymous trooper. Just one of the thousands riding in an iron-assed bird just like this one, so out of his mind that he'd volunteered to jump out of a perfectly good airplane.

It was a hell of a way to take the war to Uncle Adolf, the gigantic pain in the ass that had started all this. But it also meant you were in the company of solid men- all volunteers, all men you could trust- who were as committed to doing this right as you. There were no draftees in Fox Company. Not one in 2nd Battalion, not one in the 502nd, not one in the 101st. There was no such thing as an unwilling Screaming Eagle.

This was the moment General Lee had been talking about. The rendezvous with destiny. It was the final half-hour of June 5th as the C-47 roared down the English runway and rose into the air, lifting its landing gear and climbing to join the others. There were many places, many units, that were safer. Where Lynn could have far more easily done his time in the war. But none of them- not one- was a place Lynn Jackson would rather be.

It was very simple: either the Nazis would destroy their enemies and win this war, or the Allies would. And Lynn was here in no small part because of his deep, fierce conviction that not one of his brothers should ever have to say "Heil Hitler" or read a single sentence of _Mein Kampf_. He wasn't normally a gambler, but starting tonight, he was betting everything on the Allies.

As the pilots worked their way into formation with the other 8 C-47's in their group, Lynn got out his own copy of the message from Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. He unfolded it and read it another time.

 _Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!_

 _You are about to embark on the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven this many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world._

 _Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely._

 _But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940-1941. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home Fronts have given us overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to Victory!_

 _I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!_

 _Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God on this great and noble undertaking._

 _Dwight Eisenhower_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

It took some time for the many, many Dakotas that were carrying the 502nd to form up in the air. Lynn, who had never ridden in an aircraft prior to joining the Army, still retained a childlike fascination with the airplane. Heavier-than-air powered flight had begun right at the turn of the century, and the early 1900's were only some 40-ish years ago. The airplane, like the automobile, had arrived fairly recently, but had grown in leaps and bounds. This C-47, a sturdy, reliable aircraft capable of carrying cargo across oceans and soldiers into battle, would have been nothing but dreams and theory when the Wright brothers' fragile plane first took flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.

There was no arguing that aviation had come a long way since then. It could only make Lynn wonder what the next 40 years held in store. The relentless human pursuit of technology in peacetime only became more intense in war, with scientists and researchers receiving funds and facilities from their governments that they would only have been able to dream about in calmer times. Surely 40 years from now, Lynn's trusty M1 Garand and the C-47 he rode in would seem as obsolete as a Ford Model T was to him now.

Somebody in the back started a song, the notes of which quickly began to be picked up and carried forward in the aircraft. It was "Blood Upon the Risers", a gallows-humor Airborne song that used the tune of the old American Civil War song "Battle Hymn of the Republic". It was actually pretty grim, when you thought about it- the lyrics told the story of a rookie enlisted paratrooper making his first combat jump, having his chute fail, and plummeting to his death. Yet the men loved it, and sang it with gusto.

Lynn, who had disliked the song the first time he heard it, gradually had gotten to like it. He was rather preoccupied with making sure his leg bag was properly secured to his right leg, but had joined in the singing by the time he'd finished.

 _He was just a rookie trooper, and he surely shook with fright_

 _He checked all his equipment and made sure his pack was tight_

 _He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar:_

" _You ain't gonna jump no more!"_

Then came the chorus, repeated after each stanza, again in the style of "Battle Hymn of the Republic":

 _Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _He ain't gonna jump no more!_

Just about the whole stick of troopers was singing by now, gaining strength and volume as they went. Like all martial songs, it was designed to foster a sense of pride and create high morale and esprit de corps among men going into battle. And like so many martial songs created since before the days of the Roman Legions, it was working.

" _Is everybody happy?" cried the Sergeant, looking up_

 _Our hero meekly answered "Yes", and then they stood him up_

 _He jumped into the icy blast, his static line unhooked_

 _And he ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **X**

 _Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _He ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **X**

 _He counted long, he counted loud, he waited for the shock_

 _He felt the wind, he felt the cold, he felt the awful drop_

 _The silk from his reserve spilled out and wrapped around his legs_

 _And he ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **X**

 _Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _He ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **X**

 _The risers swung around his neck, connectors cracked his dome_

 _Suspension lines were tied in knots around his skinny bones_

 _The canopy became his shroud, he hurtled to the ground_

 _And he ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **X**

 _Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _He ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **X**

 _The days he'd lived and loved and laughed kept running through his mind_

 _He thought about the girl back home, the one he'd left behind_

 _He thought about the medicals, and wondered what they'd find_

 _And he ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **X**

 _Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _He ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **X**

 _He hit the ground, the sound was SPLAT, the blood went spurting high_

 _His comrades, they were heard to say, "A HELL OF A WAY TO DIE!"_

 _He lay there rolling 'round in the welter of his gore_

 _And he ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **X**

 _Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _Gory, gory what a hell of a way to die_

 _He ain't gonna jump no more!_

 **XX**

Some of the C-47s flew with their side door closed; some had it open, allowing more ventilation in the stuffy, cramped aircraft. All of the Dakotas would have their doors off by the time they crossed the Channel, to make sure there would be no delays in the jump. When that light went green, you wanted to have everyone going out the door. The faster troopers got out of the planes, the better their odds were of making it to the ground alive.

Riding up front, Lynn was as quiet as anyone. There was very little talking. A few men prayed, Lynn among them. A couple men smoked- easier to do with the door closed.

Gazing out one of the windows- it was located right over his shoulder, conveniently enough- Lynn went still with awe when he caught sight of what was out there.

The sky was filled with olive drab C-47s, all of them wearing their black-and-white bands of zebra stripes on their wings and fuselage, to help identify them as Allied aircraft. Everywhere you looked- everywhere- was a dozen Dakotas. In each of them, between 10 and 18 paratroopers. More than twenty thousand in all. It was one thing to hear the numbers spoken, read them on sheets of paper. It was quite another to see them for yourself.

And down below them, ships, some small, some big, more than Lynn could hope to count, all of them sailing across the English Channel under the moonlight. Aboard them, more than ten divisions of Allied soldiers. In the air, on the surface of the ocean, were more human beings than Lynn Jackson had ever seen in his life. All of them, every one, headed for Normandy.

 **XX**

As the C-47's flew and the engines droned on, though, Lynn found himself having a curious amount of trouble staying awake. His body kept relaxing, bouncing and rolling in tune with the periodically shaking, rattling aircraft, and his eyelids kept drooping shut. Looking around, Lynn saw he was not the only one experiencing this problem. Maybe those airsickness pills made you a little _too_ relaxed.

But a lot of other faces were wide awake, having no trouble staying up. Either the pills weren't affecting them, or fear was doing even more.

Out of nowhere, Lynn felt himself standing up. He moved to the center of the aircraft, grabbed onto the steel beam that the men would hook up to when the signal came to get ready. Thus steadied on his feet, the young officer raised his voice- even with the door closed, he had to essentially shout to be effectively heard over the engines.

"You know," he said, almost conversationally, "they were originally gonna send the Marines to do this."

The men were all looking his way- some with surprise, others with skepticism, others with plain disbelief.

Then Lynn added, still very matter-of-fact, "But then Command decided they'd rather not send somebody who'd just fuck it all up, so they called us instead."

That got a positive response right away. Some of the men chuckled, some grinned, some cracked up laughing.

"Are you making this up, Lieutenant?" Sergeant Bixby called. He sounded like he really couldn't tell. Several other men craned their necks to look at Lynn, too. Apparently Bixby wasn't the only one who wasn't sure.

"Hell yeah, I'm making this up!" Lynn shouted, which brought more laughter. "Passes the time, Sergeant!"

He went to sit down, but didn't stay long. The Air Corps pilots flicked the red "Get Ready" light on just a couple of minutes later.

Getting up again, Lynn hooked himself up. There were ominous booms, and rattling, blatting sounds that made the hair stand on end. The Germans were waking up down there. One thousand two hundred C-47 transports made a hell of a lot of noise. Even if they didn't know exactly what just yet, the Krauts sure knew _something_ was happening.

"Stand up!" the young officer yelled, motioning with his hands. The fourteen other troopers stood up as one, the two lines merging into one flawlessly.

"Hook up!"

Again, with the ease of men who had done it a thousand times, the troopers reached over their heads and hooked their static lines up. When they jumped out the door, their main chute would deploy almost immediately. If it didn't, you had the reserve chute. A few men in the various planes were carrying heavy equipment, like bazookas or .30-caliber machine guns, and had opted to do without the reserve. If the main didn't work for them, their luck had simply run out. It was a chance some of the men were taking.

"Sound off for equipment check!" Lynn shouted.

From the rear of the C-47 to the front, each paratrooper checked the man himself and the man in front of him, swiftly and expertly looking for missing gear, poorly packed chutes, wrongly attached or damaged equipment. Finding none, each man shouted up the line:

"Fifteen okay!"

"Fourteen okay!"

"Twelve okay!"

"Eleven okay!"

"Ten okay!"

"Nine okay!"

"Eight okay!"

"Seven okay!"

"Six okay!"

"Five okay!"

"Four okay!"

"Three okay!"

"Two okay!"

And then the jumpmaster, 2nd Lieutenant Lynn Jackson, did checked himself quickly and yelled, "One okay!"

The equipment check completed, Lynn turned and, with some effort, removed the C-47's door and locked it into the open position.

By then the anti-aircraft fire was intensifying. The noise was louder, the gunfire much closer. Red, green, and white tracers shot up from the ground, briefly making Lynn wonder if he'd ever think of Christmas' signature three colors the same way again. That thought vanished as quickly as it came, as a C-47 off to the left suddenly exploded, breaking in two and plummeting to the earth, each half trailing smoke and flame.

Lynn wondered what had happened to that Dakota. These planes weren't carrying several tons of bombs the way the B-24's and B-17's did. All they had was their fuel, and that was in the wings.

For a C-47 to break up like that in midair, something big must've gotten a direct hit on it. Maybe a German 88. That big bastard of an antiaircraft cannon, the FlaK 36.

Lynn was still thinking about that, still waiting for the green light, when his own C-47 exploded about five seconds later.

* * *

 **A/N: This story is as authentic as I could make it. It's set it the universe of Brothers in Arms, and involves the characters and events of both Road to Hill 30 and Earned in Blood. I had to research the 502** **nd** **PIR just to learn the names of some of the CO's of units in this story. Everybody from General Taylor down to the CO of Fox Company really was in command of the units I stated they were on June 5** **th** **-6** **th** **, 1944. Lieutenant Jackson, Staff Sergeant Hassay, Sergeant Baker, Corporal Hartsock, and the other enlisted men in 3** **rd** **Platoon are all historically fictional, but are also canon Brothers in Arms characters. Lieutenant Jackson actually doesn't make much of an appearance in the game, and as far as I know is never even seen in person.**

 **Jackson is, in canon, killed on June 6** **th** **, 1944 when his C-47 explodes over Normandy. I wrote this story to tell more about him, give him a first name and a background. Some 2** **nd** **lieutenants are vain, some are clueless, but some actually learn pretty fast and, more importantly, bust their asses trying to learn the ropes of their job and do it right. I chose to depict Lieutenant Jackson as one of those lieutenants.**

 **The part of the story where 2LT Jackson is griping to SSG Hassay about the number of items he is carrying into Normandy with him and how much it all weighs is directly taken from Episode 1 of the HBO miniseries "Band of Brothers"; the trooper griping there is Joe Toye of Easy Company, 506** **th** **PIR. Not every American paratrooper jumped into Normandy with a hundred pounds or more in gear on him, but a lot did, or carried something close to that amount. "Mae West" was the popular name for the buoyant life-saving vests that the 82** **nd** **and 101** **st** **were issued, in case a trooper was mis-dropped and landed in a lake, river, or the English Channel.**

 **Lieutenant Jackson making fun of the Marines is almost quoted verbatim from a dream I had once, in which I was the lieutenant and said almost the same words. It was pretty funny imagining a junior officer making fun of the Marine Corps on the night he jumps into Normandy. Operation Overlord is the largest amphibious invasion in history, and no U.S. Marines were present.**

 **The question of "Are you making this up?" and the emphatic response "Hell yeah, I'm making this up!" are taken from an episode of another HBO miniseries, Generation Kill, featuring the real-life exploits of one platoon of Bravo Company, 1** **st** **Recon Battalion in the invasion of Iraq in 2003.**

 **I have tried to be true and faithful to both the details of the Normandy invasion, Mission Albany (the specific part of Operation Overlord assigned to the 101** **st** **and 82** **nd** **), and to the 101** **st** **and its featured regiment in the Brothers in Arms video game series, the 502** **nd** **PIR, also called the "Five-Oh-Deuce" or just "The Deuce". I may not have gotten everything right, but I did my best. I apologize for any errors or inaccuracies.**


End file.
